


Things We Lost in the Fire

by mangocianamarch



Series: Le Livre de L'un par La Dame Marciana [17]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: AU, F/M, and it also caused me pain, dark au, dark!king!alistair, this was too fun to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3918670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ferelden is in ruins. The King should pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Lost in the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this gorgeous piece](http://therealmcgee.tumblr.com/post/118641088814/inspired-by-that-steve-valentine-interview-where) by [therealmcgee](http://therealmcgee.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, and also by my own almighty and unyielding need to write a dark!king!alistair. this probably doesn't encompass all the headcanons i have about him and what happened to him and why he turned out the way he did, but who knows, if people like this, i may just write more and i can explore more of that.
> 
> also: this hURT. it huRT SO GOOD.

Sathien keeps her head down as guards lead her forward, hands gripped around her shoulders. Her hair is in her face, and she longs to push it back, but her hands are weighed down by the manacles around her wrists. She says nothing, doesn’t trust how dry her throat is, or how raw her insides feel. Her escorts are quiet too, but she doesn’t need to ask them why.

The throne room is dimly lit, the night outside the windows too heavy for the small torches lining the walls and dotting the posts. It feels stuffy here, stifling, suffocating, as though not enough air is coming in and none of it is going out. In the silence of the chamber, the chinking of their armor bounces off the walls, and Sathien can hardly tell if that’s the reason for the ringing in her ears.

She’s brought to a stop at the foot of a set of stairs, blanketed in an ornate carpet of blue and orange and gold, telling a mighty tale of victory against demons and darkspawn. There is a stain over the face of one particular warrior, a mage with red hair, and Sathien nearly snorts.

“Shackles? Truly?”

Alistair’s irritated scoff is gentle, but Sathien doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s sneering.

“She _did_ attempt to assasinate you, Your Highness,” replies the guard to her left, and Alistair snorts.

“And she was _caught_ , wasn’t she?” the King retorts, “Stopped in time and stripped of her weapons, wasn’t she?”

Silence, and Sathien imagines the two guards are exchanging looks. “She _is_ still a mage,  Your Majesty,” says the other.

“And she doesn’t need a staff to be dangerous, does she?” Alistair asks in reply, “Do you think shackles are going to stop her from hurling a fireball at me from where she’s standing?”

_It’s tempting to_ , Sathien nearly says. She doesn’t.

Needing no further prodding, apparently, the guards free her of the chains. Sathien breathes a sigh of relief, and rubs at her wrists. The sound of the metal falling away is followed by the scuffling of leather on stone, and the sweep of heavy furs on the floor.

“Leave us,” Alistair orders, and the guards are only too quick to bow and obey. He waits until they’ve gone before speaking to Sathien.

“You failed. I expected more from you.”

Her fingers find the bottom of her chin, and he lifts her head. And now Sathien has no choice _but_ to look at him.

His eyes are bright, his cheeks full, his skin pale, his hair immaculate. He smirks as he always has, his brow halfway up his forehead. He’s still beautiful. It’s like a punch to Sathien’s gut.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting to see.

The darkness that resides in her seems to rear its head and sniff the air.

Alistair’s thumb caresses across the scar along the side of her neck, lighter than a feather. Sathien wants to jerk away from the electricity in his touch.

“I’m almost disappointed,” Alistair tells her, “It was so _easy_ , and _still_ you slipped up. Worse than before, if we’re being perfectly honest – you actually got _caught_ this time. By me, no less.” Alistair sighs, shaking his head a little. “I need to change my guards. I guess that’s, what, another handful of families that are going to go hungry in the next two weeks or so?”

“You’re heartless,” Sathien spits out.

He taps the tip of her nose with a finger. “Ah-ah, _ruthless_ ,” he chides, as if correcting a child, “ _Ruthless_ gets things done. _Ruthless_ gets me places. _Ruthless_ teaches people, it makes them afraid. Or did you need a reminder?”

Sathien clenches her jaw and fixes him with a look, challenging him wordlessly.  Perhaps not the best strategy to an outsider, but she knows...

Alistair gives her face a once-over, lets go of her chin roughly and sneers.

“Can’t do it?” Sathien asks, perhaps against her better judgment.

“ _Won’t_ ,” Alistair replies, pacing away and around her, “Because then I’d be giving you what you want, which means you’d win. And I can’t have that.”

He knows her too well. He knows how much it hurts. Worse, he knows how to twist the knife and keep the pain there.

The darkness is alert. It’s preparing to feed.

Alistair is intimidating and imposing even without saying anything. He circles her in his great dragging furs, like a predator sizing up its already weakened prey for the final pounce, for the kill. His sword hangs casually strapped to his side, and Sathien knows it wouldn’t even take a blink for him to draw it and deal some damage.

Sathien swallows as Alistair completes his first circle around her and starts another, just as slow, just as calculating. “So, what now?” she asks, “Am I to hang at last? Come dawn, maybe? Now that you have evidence of my attempts at your life?”

“Tsk tsk, so unimaginative, dearest,” Alistair tuts, and Sathien shudders at the pet name, “I’m sure you and I can come up with something far more exciting for Ferelden to watch.”

Sathien’s fingers are twitching with the need to protect herself, set up some sort of barrier, or to freeze him where he is. He’s inching towards her, closing in on her, preparing to strike. He _wants_ her to challenge him like that. She won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Exciting?” she repeats, “Such as being flayed alive, perhaps? Tied to a post in the square, stripped down to nothing?”

“There was a time you _wanted_ to be naked and tied up,” Alistair breathes, and he’s right next to her ear, and it makes her jump.

“There was a time you were _worth it_ ,” Sathien bites back.

Alistair chuckles. “I see your sharp tongue hasn’t dulled,” he notes, “Might as well get my fill of it now, eh? Before it disappears altogether.”

Sathien can feel her hands trembling. He is pressed up against her, her back to his chest, one hand on her arm, his mouth close to her ear. _He’s too close._

“I have to confess, darling,” Alistair says, voice barely above a whisper, “To a very strong urge to make your execution far less public. I know I said I _wouldn’t_ , but it’s just _too, too_ easy, isn’t it, now that I have you here, with nowhere to run?”

And there it is. The blade of the shines even in the low light of the torches, and the edge of it is cold against her throat.

“But that would be _kind_ , wouldn’t it?” the King continues, his other arm winding around her waist, and the intimacy of the embrace makes Sathien’s mouth dry, “No more dreams, no more pain, no more heartache, no more songs about what used to be and what you could have had if you hadn’t done this to me?”

“I didn’t --”

“ _You did_ ,” Alistair hisses, pressing the dagger just that bit more against her, only enough to threaten without breaking her skin, “ _You_ did this to me, Sathien. _All_ of this. _You_ made me King. _You_ made me marry Anora. _You_ made me impregnate Morrigan to keep me alive. _You_ left me to fend for myself while you chased after the blasted Grey Wardens, _and for what_? Hmmm? You left my court to play hero, _and for what_? Does anyone remember you? Remember what you did? The great Hero of Ferelden? Do they even _know_ what you did to _stay alive_ long enough to soak in their praises while I sat on a throne drenched in the blood of those who came before me? _You ruined me._ ”

“You ruined Ferelden!” Sathien snaps. And now tears sting Sathien’s eyes, and though she tries to hold them back, they roll silently down her cheek.

The darkness stretches its limbs, begins to get restless. It’s ready and willing.

“Tears?” Alistair laughs, taking one off her face and licking it off his finger, “I can taste your hatred, love.”

“I don’t…I…” Sathien stammers. She swallows against her crying. “I can’t hate you, Alistair.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’d be easy to hate you,” Sathien explains, “And when have you and I ever done things the easy way?”

The darkness inside Sathien coils. She can hear it laughing softly.

“You’ve a point, dearest,” Alistair snorts, releasing his hold on her. He moves to stand in front of her, using the flat of the dagger to turn her face up to his again as she scours her eyes. He smirks at what he sees. “It seems we’re at an impasse,” he tells her, “And _your friend_ is rather enjoying the show.”

The darkness cackles. It forces more tears to spill from Sathien.

“How is this to end, Sathien?” Alistair asks, “You can’t kill me because you don’t hate me enough to do it. I won’t kill you because that would be _releasing_ you from all of this. Letting you rot in the dungeons is dull, even with the knowledge that Despair probably won’t give you a moment’s peace once you’re down there. But giving you back to your precious Grey Wardens won’t do either of us any good either – they’ll press you to try again and I’ll keep looking over my shoulder, wondering which angle you’ll come at me from next time.” The dagger moves down the length of her neck, down the middle of her chest, across her ribs, still light but all the more threatening for it. “Strange, isn’t it? We’ve done and sacrificed so much to stay alive, only for us to come to a point where it’d be better for us to both be dead.”

Sathien’s fingers spark, and a fire comes to life at her tips. Alistair hears the crackling of the flame, steps back and laughs cruelly. He _knows_ she isn’t doing that of her own volition.

Alistair returns to his throne, plopping heavily onto it and watches her seethe. “Sentencing then, I think,” he sighs, as if speaking about an annoying fly, “Imprisonment, but not in the cells. Here, at court, as Captain of the King’s Guards. I need to let the old one go, after all, you’ve slipped past him _five times_ now, how useless. Yes, I think that will do. _You_ will serve _me_ , do as I command, without question and without fail. Watch me – what was it you accused me of doing? – ruin Ferelden. Watch us do it _together_.” He steeples his hands, fingers resting on his lips. “This _is_ what you wanted, is it not, love? You and I, together, ‘til the end?”

The flames at Sathien’s fingers die. Despair strokes Sathien soothingly, cooing to her in congratulations.

 

 

  **~ END. ~**


End file.
